


Tourney

by Embracingtheplotbunnies



Series: New Targaryen Dynasty [8]
Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/M, Family, Flirting, Mostly Fluff, Political Marriages, really long, relationships, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embracingtheplotbunnies/pseuds/Embracingtheplotbunnies
Summary: Jon and Daenerys host their first tourney since Jon's coronation and discover that some huge changes are on the horizon-especially involving the people around them.





	Tourney

**Author's Note:**

> This may be my longest oneshot so far, I think? I haven't been able to check recently.
> 
> So I'm officially on summer break-but I'll be at a writing intensive for the next few weeks so I may not be able to write as much as I normally might. I'm going to try to write a couple of other oneshots ahead of time so I can still publish something weekly at least. 
> 
> I think I'm going to write some headcanons for some of the minor characters and events that I might reference in these stories (especially this one) but might not get to fully explain, so I'll post all of that on my Tumblr. 
> 
> And yes, I made an OC for Sansa because I don't really ship her with anyone in the books or show. Sansa isn't my absolute favorite character, but I feel like she deserves better than all of the men available to her in the show, and I also wanted to show her in a relationship where she might not have that 'fairy tale' love but she has power-and that will come into play in other episodes.
> 
> I don't own GOT or ASOIAF. All rights to GRR Martin and HBO respectively.
> 
> Honestly...I think that's about it. Enjoy!

Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Third of his Name, was crowned King with very little fanfare in the throne room of the Red Keep three weeks after his wedding. The guest list was as small as he could make it without offending people (which meant that it was still quite extensive) and the festivities were subdued somewhat compared to the wedding. Just like that, the Seven Kingdoms returned to full Targaryen rule. 

Which meant that Tyrion thought it was an appropriate time to host their first tourney a few months later.

“He’s gone insane. All of the stress has finally caught up with him-”

“Take a seat, you’re embarrassing yourself. Besides, I don’t see what you think the problem is.” 

Jon stopped mid pace and turned to face his wife. The sunlight slanting in through the windows of her solar turned her blonde hair white. “You agree with him?”

Dany shrugged, not even bothering to look up from the carved lion she was turning over and over in her fingertips. It was part of a set that she’d received as a wedding gift. There were eight of them: a wolf, a stag, an eagle, a lion, a rose, a kraken, and a sun and spear to represent each of the seven great houses and a dragon to rule over them all. “I don’t see why not. It would be a good chance for the kingdoms to unwind after the stress of the war-”

“I thought we had the wedding for exactly that purpose.” 

She gave him that look he hated-an almost pitying look that subtly reminded him how little experience he had in politics compared to her. “That was a display of power more than anything else. Besides, everyone loves a good tournament.”

“And where are we going to find all of that coin?”

She shrugged again and he once again found himself vaguely infuriated; all of the nobles seemed to have a different opinion on what money was and seemed to think it grew on trees. “We’ll tax the nobility and demand more in reparations from the Lannisters-if you think they haven’t squirreled away most of their gold deep into Casterly Rock, you’re more naive than I thought. I should have made you my Master of Coin instead of my husband. It seems like it would make you much happier-”

“Just because we’re royalty, we don’t need to spend extravagantly-”

“You’re expected to, at a tourney. Especially because our wedding was mediocre at best.” 

He ran his hands through his hair, feeling a headache coming on. “Mediocre?” 

“You did say you only wanted thirty courses. And the entertainment was a bit lackluster-”

That managed to get a smirk out of him. “You didn’t appreciate all of the minstrels composing ballads about your beauty?”

“Not particularly. It was a thoroughly exhausted subject even before I crossed the sea. I appreciate them if they manage to say something original, but most of them don't even try.”

He took the chair opposite hers in their private sitting room and poured himself another glass of water. “You’re thoroughly entitled.”

She smiled back, undoing her plait and running her fingers through her hair so it hung loosely around her shoulders. “Well, I am the queen. It wouldn’t hurt you to loosen up a little, since you’re the king.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s talk about this imaginary tourney of yours-” 

“It’s most certainly not imaginary-”

“How many people would you expect to come?” 

“At the very worst, five thousand. Fifteen thousand as an average estimate; thirty thousand if we’re lucky.”

Gods. The wedding had given him a headache and that had mostly been the nobility. 

“I think we should make generous gifts to the winners,” she continued. “Tyrion and I were talking-”

“So you brought it up with him before you mentioned it to me?”

“Yes, because we anticipated something like this would happen and we'd have to persuade you.” She sounded almost amused at his discomfort. “We decided on forty five thousand golden dragons for the winner of the joust, thirty thousand for the runner up, thirty thousand for the winner of the melee, and fifteen thousand for the winner of the archery contest. Our guests will expect the prices to be higher since we’re a new monarchy-”

“Gods be good. And I suppose you’ve already sent out the invitations, have you?”

“Of course not. Do you really think that little of me?” 

Often times, he didn’t know what to think of her: his beautiful wife, intelligent and whip smart and imbued with the fire of the dragons she rode. Sometimes he felt he understood her perfectly-and sometimes he felt she was something other, barely human, someone he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. And yet somehow he still loved her beyond reason, beyond hope or doubt, even when she was about to plunge him into debt. “No...although I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to change your mind.” 

“It has to be done,” she replied, the joking tone in her voice now gone. “Although if it truly makes you so upset…”

He shook his head. “No. Forty five thousand golden dragons, so be it. But this is it, isn’t it? No other surprise expenditures I should know about?”

She nodded. “This will be the last one-and then we’ll rule. I promise.” She turned back to the pile of papers in front of her-but he noticed the twitch in her eyebrow and the way the light in her eyes had dimmed. 

“What is it?”

“What’s what?” 

“Is something wrong?”

She smiled unconvincingly. “I...no. It’s just that...my blood came last night.”

“Oh.” They hadn’t told anyone, even Tyrion-certainly how much they were hoping for a child. It had felt as if telling someone else would jinx it, especially when there was no guarantee that Dany had gotten pregnant the night of their wedding-or in the days after. But even so, they’d begun to hope. “Well, that’s all right. We’ll just try again.”

“Of course,” she replied vaguely. But even he could see she still wasn’t satisfied. And he didn’t think he was either. 

~

The preparations started the very next day: invitations were sent out to every lord of every holdfast in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, whether they lived in a large castle or a falling apart pile of rocks on the edge of the continent. Jon found himself constantly swordfighting every member of the Queensguard in preparation for his turn in the lists-although it was nice to be out in the sparring ring again, where the only thing that mattered was who hit who harder. Dany had to go to the dressmaker’s every other day; she would be wearing two new dresses every day of the tourney-one for the events and one for the banquets in the evening. The expenses kept piling up until he had to stop thinking about them. 

“What do you think?” Dany stood in front of a full length mirror, wearing a light blue dress accented with light green. She’d practically dragged him to the dressmaker’s shop, saying she needed his opinion on a dress-although he didn’t know why, because she had to know that he thought she looked beautiful in whatever she wore. 

“I like it,” he replied. “I like the color.” 

“Do you like it better than the teal one?”

Personally, he didn’t have a preference. “I don’t know. I thought you were going to wear the red one?”

“The red one is for dinner. I still need something to wear when we watch the tournament.” She twisted her hair up in one hand and examined herself critically. “Sansa wrote me back to say that she and Lord Cerwyn will be coming to the tourney-”

That caught his attention. “Lord Cerwyn?”

"Yes. His family is one of the Stark bannermen, if I understand it correctly.”

“Well yes, but...are they coming together? As a couple? Are they...engaged?" When had his younger sister gotten a boyfriend and not told him about it? He thought they’d agreed not to keep secrets from each other. "I didn't know that Sansa was looking for a husband so soon." 

“I don’t know.” She turned to face him and for a moment he thought she might have understood what he was feeling-the confusion and the betrayal. “It just said they would be attending together. Do you know him?”

“No.” He tried not to think anything of it, although it was very hard not to read it as anything other than what it was-a possible engagement. “What about Arya?”

"She and Gendry will be coming as well.” 

Good-at least one of his siblings was being straight with him. “Who else has responded?”

“All of the major houses-Princess Martell and Prince Dayne, Yara Greyjoy and her mistress, the Royces from the Vale in lieu of Robin Arryn, the Tyrells, the Tullys, and Ser Daven Lannister and his cousin Damion. And of course a host of smaller houses and their sworn knights.” She took a seat next to him on the settee and undid her hair, letting it hang long down her back. “It will be a magnificent showing. Don’t tell me you’re not excited.” 

“Only a little.” 

She planted a kiss to his forehead, eyes sparkling up at him. “More than that.” 

“It’s still far too extravagant.” 

“I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.” She stood up and went back into the small adjoining dressing room to change back into her court garb and he wondered what she was really thinking about it. Was she nervous, as he was, about so many people in King’s Landing-when any one of them might be against the Targaryen Restoration and there was no way they could keep everyone safe? It would be the first time they would see some of the lesser lords since the Battle for the Dawn-would they be blamed for any dying kin? Only time would tell. 

But maybe he was excited about the tournament-a little, when he convinced himself to stop playing the responsible adult. He’d grown up hearing stories about them-how the great knights of the realm fought each other for eternal glory, and how the tourney at Harrenhal had changed everything. The realm’s eyes would be on the capital; it would be their first chance to prove themselves and show their strength. The occasion necessesitated it, but that didn't mean he couldn't complain about it. 

“Are you ready?” Dany emerged dressed in a simple red dress and dismissed the dressmaker, who couldn’t bow low enough as she gathered her sewing things together and scurried away. “We have our afternoon audience. It’s your turn, isn’t it?” They’d taken turns hosting audiences for the last couple of months; there was only one throne. 

He almost flinched; he still wasn’t used to seeing crowds of petitioners, all waiting for him to help them with more problems than he knew what to do with: bad crops, hunger, a family member’s sickness, a missing goat. 

But Dany slipped her hand firmly into his, as if feeling his trepidation, and squeezed once-as if to tell him that they would figure this out together, and as long as they were together everything would be just fine. 

 

“You can’t possibly be planning on wearing that.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” Sure, the armor was a little bit tarnished, but it was the same set he’d worn to go battle the White Walkers and it hadn’t let him down then. It seemed only fitting that it would give him luck now. 

Dany ran her hand down the breastplate, stopping to pick at a bit of metal detailing that had come loose. “It’s broken.”

“It’s not broken-”

“We’re getting you some new armor.”

“No we’re not.”

She shot him a look and he rolled his eyes. “You’re a king now. You need to dress like it.” 

The next afternoon they went to an armory in King’s Landing to commission a new suit of armor. It was almost more beautiful than it was functional; a dragon and a wolf were carved on either side of his breastplate and the new silver shone in the sunlight. But he balked when the armsmaster came out with the helm-an extravagant helmet carved into the shape of a dragon, complete with rubies for eyes and scale detailing. 

“It’s already paid for,” Dany muttered before he could tell the store owner there had to be some kind of mistake. 

“It looks more like a decoration than something that could save my life,” he replied, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his doublet. The armory was hot and dimly lit, with the only light coming from the massive forges that burned at all hours of the day. 

“You’re the king-no one at that tournament would dare try and kill you.” 

“I’ll look like a fool.”

“You should be thankful-the first iteration came with wings, but I thought you might see that as going too far.” 

 

King’s Landing became more hectic than ever in the days and weeks leading up to the tournament. Everyone was preparing for the onslaught of guests that would be coming for the tournament-inns would be full, taverns would be crowded, and the streets would be filled to bursting at all hours of the day (and night). Everything was scrubbed clean; Targaryen flags once again hung outside the windows, and shops kept their doors open to display their wares to everyone passing by. 

The Red Keep was less busy, but not by much. The castle would be home to many visiting dignitaries who wouldn’t deign to stay at the inns and all of the bedrooms had to be cleaned from top to bottom-a job that necessitated the employment of a small army of maids. It seemed as the tourney got closer that there was always something to do-someone to talk to, accounts to go over, food to taste and outfits to approve. Dany felt she barely saw her husband; they were busy from sunup to sundown and when they both finally collapsed into bed at the end of the day they were too tired to talk. Even their usual lunches with Tyrion were rushed; information was exchanged only on a need to know basis. 

The guests started arriving three weeks before the tournament. The entertainers came first-the minstrels and camp followers, the septons, and the peddlers who wandered the crowds selling armor, wine, or rare delicacies out of their carts. Then came the lords of smaller holdfasts and hedge knights, staking their camps in whatever open fields they could find or staying in an inn if they could afford it. The great lords and ladies came much later, bringing sweeping retinues of bannermen that often took an hour or two to completely enter the city. 

Many of the great families stayed in the Red Keep itself or erected their own pavilions on the tourney grounds. Arya and Gendry arrived with the rest of the Baratheon host, although Arya immediately left them so she could spend time with Jon. The Tyrells, Martells, Greyjoys, Royces, and Lannisters came the next day-but Sansa didn’t arrive until the day before the tourney. Dany invited her and Arya to dinner the night they arrived, while the streets of the city rang with merriment and wine flowed freely. 

Micael Cerwyn was handsome enough-he had long brown hair that he always brushed so it lay flat across his head, and he had a square chin and deep set grey eyes like chips of steel. His nose was slightly crooked-he’d broken it once when he was a child and it had never healed correctly. He was well spoken and quiet, and when he looked at Sansa there was nothing but tenderness in his eyes. Dany caught Jon looking at him suspiciously a few times during the meal but mercifully he never said anything. 

She took Sansa aside after dinner, when everyone was dispersing to go back to their respective camps. “I didn’t expect you to find a new beau so soon.”

Sansa looked away. “Neither did I, but...we’re engaged to be married.”

“That’s wonderful!” And she truly meant it. Sansa deserved all the happiness in the world. “...He treats you well, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. He’s perfectly chivalrous, intelligent, sweet...after everything, I just wanted someone sweet, someone gentle...you understand, don’t you?”

“I understand perfectly. When is the wedding?”

“That’s the other piece…” Sansa looked around furtively, even though they were in an empty bedroom with the door closed. “I wasn’t planning on doing it so early, but it has to be soon. I’m with child.”

“...Oh. It’s his, isn’t it?”

“Of course! We probably drank a little too much, but for just once in my life I wanted to be in control in the bedchamber.” She shook her head. “Isn’t that awful? I used him because he was kind, but also because it was convenient.” 

“It’s not wrong of you." She'd be lying if she said she hadn't felt the same way, now and again. "How long have you known about the child?”

“Two months.” 

“Was it your first time with him?”

“Yes. We’d kissed a few times but we’d never gone any farther than that.” 

Dany knew it was selfish of her, but she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be able to conceive that fast-after only one night, no less. “That’s lovely.”

“It’s why I haven’t told Jon yet. The baby won’t be a bastard obviously, but...I know it would still be sensitive for him. I’ll tell him when I’m ready. Please don’t-”

“I won’t tell. I promise.” 

She smiled wearily. “It all happened so fast-”

“Love usually does. But you’re sure you’ll be happy with this man?”

“Yes. He’s kind and he would never mistreat me-and at the moment, that’s all I’m looking for. Father and Mother never had a storybook love affair, but they loved each other and lived in peace and harmony just the same. We can too.” Sansa hesitated. “What about you? Are you-”

“Not yet.” She tried to keep her tone light and carefree, instead of letting on how much it bothered her that she was still getting her moon blood so regularly. “We’re trying.” 

“It will happen. Don’t worry, your Grace.” Nothing outwardly changed in Sansa’s tone, but Dany still thought she heard understanding. “It takes longer for some women than it does for others.”

“I’m counting on it.” She stood and put on a smile that felt only a little bit forced. “Shall I show you to your chambers, Lady Stark?”

~  
They lay awake long into the night, listening to all the noise coming from the city. At least, that was what Dany told herself-even though really she was thinking about Sansa’s news and Jon was awake because she was awake. 

“Is something wrong?” Jon asked, once the only noises outside were drunk men cavorting in the streets. 

“No,” she replied. It was nothing to get him worried over. Although she couldn’t help wondering if the witch had been right and she would never bear a living child. What would happen if she couldn’t produce an heir to the throne? Would a surrogate mother have to bear her child? Would Sansa? 

Jon played with her hair, resting an arm gently around her shoulders. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

But she didn’t want to. Not this. Not now. She should be happy; she should be celebrating. “Later. When the tourney is over.”

He cleared his throat. “If something was ever wrong-really wrong-you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If it involved us, if it involved…” He paused a moment, as if thinking. “Our children?”

“Of course I would. And I will tell you, I promise. But it’s nothing that you can help.” 

“But you would tell me if there was?” 

“Yes.” She stared up at the darkness of the ceiling, all too aware of the man beside her and how much she didn’t deserve him-his love, his kindness, his understanding. He deserved someone else, someone better than she could ever be. “Get some sleep, Jon. Everything will be mayhem tomorrow.”

They didn’t speak anymore after that, but she knew he didn’t go to sleep until she dozed off first. 

 

The jousts had barely started and the air was sticky hot. 

Jon shifted in his seat, trying to stay in the shade-but no matter where he went the sun seemed to follow him. He supposed he was lucky; the raised dais for the royalty was always shaded, but the sun was beating down on the heads of everyone in the stands. Even so, he could feel sweat beading under his armor and soaking into his clean linen shirt. It was distracting, even as two opponents crashed swords on their two massive steeds. 

Next to him Dany barely moved, but he saw the sweat beading on the back of her neck. She was smiling politely, but it seemed more of a grimace. 

On his other side Tyrion looked out at the tournament and sighed. “I have to say, I’ve never had seats with this much shade. I have greater sympathy for those who aren't as fortunate.” 

“Even so, I think I’m melting.”

“As entertaining as that might be, I think it’s impossible. Although, if you were to suddenly succumb to heat stroke, I’d find that entertaining as well-and hopefully it would postpone things until it’s not so blasted hot.” One of the knights, wearing the green and blue of Estermont, fell to the ground with a loud thud and the crowd roared; the winning knight took a victory lap while the next two contenders saddled up. It was looking to be a very long day and Jon had to resist the urge to sigh. 

Something in the row of seats below him yanked his foot and he looked down to see Arya shielding her eyes to look at him. “It’s hotter than the seven hells out here.” 

“Don’t let Sansa hear you say that,” he replied, trying to keep his voice low while still talking over the commotion. She was in the row of seats below them, clapping at the jousting, and seemed to be having a wonderful time. 

“The Dornish seem to be in their element.” Nymeria and Ellaria were wearing short skirts and blouses that seemed to be clothing in name only. They barely covered anything. The few of Ellaria’s younger daughters that had been brought along-Elia, Obella, and Dorea-were dressed slightly more conservatively. Although not by much. “I’m surprised you’re not fainting at the sight of all that skin.”

He tapped her head lightly with the back of his boot and she jerked forward quickly; Dany gave him a disapproving look and he tried his best to look contrite. 

She waited until the next match had already started-Hardyng on Tyrell-before she leaned over and whispered to him “Would you like to see me in a Dornish dress?”

The question threw him for a second; even though he was used to her flirtations, they always took him by surprise. Especially when he'd thought she was going to reprimand him for acting like a child. “Perhaps-but maybe not out here where everyone can see you.” 

“Later then.” Their eyes were fully off the match now. “What do you think?”

“That sounds absolutely wonderful.” There was a loud commotion in the ring and he turned back just in time to see someone else go flying into the dirt. He tried his best to school his features, even though he had to try hard not to smile-and from the few looks he allowed himself to sneak at his wife, he was sure she felt the same way. 

 

The jousting went on long into the evening, when the participants and audience disbanded for the nightly entertainment. Dany knew the streets of King’s Landing would be flooded with drunken knights and wandering minstrels, the gutters running red with discarded wine. In the Red Keep, the festivities were slightly more subdued-but not by much. A myriad of hedge knights slept in the Great Hall after the royals and their guests departed; she could hear their loud conversations from the Holdfast, where she made conversation with all of the ambassadors and dignitaries she could stomach. 

When she had a free moment she stood at the window of a vacant study and looked out at the night, at the stars glistening over the Blackwater like pieces of fallen sky. 

“Your Highness?”

She turned to see Elia standing near the doorway, wearing a short black dress that hugged her emerging curves. The girl was fifteen; she was tall, slender, and beautiful and Dany wondered slightly curiously why she wasn’t already married. “Yes, Lady Martell?”

“I’d like to ask you a question, if that’s all right?” She took a tentative step forward, looking at the two members of the Queensguard who flanked the Queen worriedly. 

“Of course.” She beckoned her forward. “I’ve noticed that your older sister doesn’t wish to talk to me.” 

“Nymeria is grieving from the loss of her two sisters-we all are,” she replied. “It’s hard to lose family members in wartime-it’s even harder to be the one that survives when so many other die. And we’ve been busy internally determining the line of succession.” She cleared her throat. “I was wondering if...I could participate in the archery competition tomorrow?”

“Oh.” Dany wasn’t sure what exactly she’d been expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that. She’d heard the Sand Snakes had been trained since they were very young in all manner of weapons but she’d never thought they would compete in a tourney. 

“My sisters and I have been learning since we were very young,” Elia continued, with a note of pride in her voice. “But I’m the best with a bow. Nym says it’s all right if I compete but I should ask you first since it’s not exactly...common.”

“It’s not exactly common to have a queen with just as much power as the king, but here we are. You may compete, if you think you can hold your own against all the other archers.” She couldn’t help smiling, especially as Elia snapped to with a quick “Thank you, your Grace,” curtsied quickly, and disappeared into the crowd. 

Her mind drifted to another Elia, someone she’d never met-whip smart and strong, the last woman to marry a Targaryen, who should have been queen of the realm. She thought that this new Elia must have plenty of her spirit. 

 

When Jon woke up the next morning, the side of the bed that Dany always slept in had already gone cold. He stretched his hand out without opening his eyes, seeking her warmth, but she was gone.  
He cracked one eye open carefully, letting the sounds of the men at the tourney grounds warming up and getting ready for the competition wash through his open window. Dany sat at her vanity, twisting her hair up into a braid on top of her head; her dressing gown was open slightly and he could see down the column of her back. She smiled when she saw him stir; he got out of bed carefully and walked over to her, trailing a hand across the back of her neck. “You’re up early.”  
“Or you’re up late,” she replied. “I gave Bekah the day off.” Jon remembered briefly that this was one of Dany’s maids, the four or so girls who always attended her and did her hair-not her ladies in waiting, because they were different (although he didn’t know why; they seemed to do the same things no matter what they were called). “Could you help me with my hair?” 

He took the end of her long plait gingerly in his hands and tried to braid it, the soft hair moving through his fingers like water. It glistened in the light from the open windows as he shakily braided it down to the end and twisted it up under the mountain of hair that was already forming on top of her head. “I’m not the best at hair-”

“You’re wonderful at it.” She moved to kiss him, fingers gliding across the back of his neck in smooth, even strokes. “You’re wonderful at everything. Have I told you that?” 

“Come now. Surely there must be something about me you don’t like?” 

She shook her head. “I’d have to put some thought into it-and I doubt you want me to do that.” 

He kissed the top of her forehead. “And what’s gotten you so excited today?”

“Why do I need something to make me excited? Why can’t I just enjoy the tournament?” She practically radiated happiness. “I get to see you make a fool of yourself in front of the entire kingdom-why shouldn’t I be excited?” She stood up and crossed to the door, leaving the sounds of minstrels singing and men and boys clashing arms in the training yard to grow quieter behind them. “I just forget sometimes that...this is actually happening. We defeated the White Walkers, we defeated Cersei Lannister...we’ve defeated all of our enemies. Whatever happens now, it’s because we won. There were times over the past few years when winning has been the furthest thing from my mind.” 

“Me too.” He twined her hand in his. Gods, he loved her. “We deserve this-all of it.” He wondered if that was what Robert Baratheon had thought, back when he thought he'd killed the last of the Targaryens that mattered and ground their name into the dust. "And if you want me to go out and play the perfect king, then I promise I will-although I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it.” 

“You try. That’s good enough for me.” She squeezed his hand and they stayed there for a minute, suspended between the clamor of the outside world and the quiet of their own hearts and minds.  
.

 

The day was long, hot, and dusty. Dany could practically feel herself dissolving in the stands as she watched knight after knight fall off their horses, draped in the many colored livery of their houses. Some stood triumphant and accepted new armor and an apprenticeship while others limped off the battlefield in disgrace. Some dismounted gratefully while others rolled off into the mud. A few tried to wink at her, as if she would forget the vows she made to Jon in half a heartbeat. She always smiled politely but disinterestedly and moved a little bit closer to her husband. 

Michael and Sansa sat in the row ahead of her, sitting close to each other. Michael’s hand rested on Sansa’s knee and she felt rather than saw Jon looking at him curiously. Next to them sat Arya, Gendry, and-surprisingly-Margaery Tyrell. Dany glanced back into the stands, where Olenna Tyrell was sitting with a gaggle of young Tyrell girls. Why had she come so far over, especially unchaperoned? Or was the woman who had been thrice married, thrice widowed, ready to take a fourth husband? 

If that was the case she pitied Gendry. Margaery’s love interests seemed to have a nasty habit of dying painful deaths. 

The roar of the crowd brought her back to the present, just as a Tyrell squire slammed into the dirt. When he got to his feet he was wincing and clutching his shoulder; he looked barely older than ten-and-four. But he didn’t cry; he just bowed to the king and queen with as much dignity as he could muster and limped over to an attending maester. A cheer went up from the crowd as the next competitor saddled up-this one dressed in the gold and leather of Dorne. Dany recognized his face, if not his name; he’d been winning matches consistently. Perhaps he would even have to face Jon the next day, both competing to be her champion. 

“Are you in the shade?” Jon asked, shifting a bit to the right so he could talk to her while still looking out at the fighting. 

“I’m fine, thank you. It was hotter in Astapor every day than it is today.” She glanced down at Arya and Gendry, glad to seize upon the change in subject. “What is she doing?”

Jon shrugged. “Gendry said he may be looking to take a wife-he has a claim to Storm’s End but he needs a highborn lady to cement his standing in the eyes of the other lords and ladies.” 

Shouldn’t it be Arya? “So why Lady Margaery?”

"Who else is there? So many are dead.” 

“Your sister. Arya. The last time I checked she was a highborn lady.”

He looked confused for a moment, as if he’d forgotten all about her. Maybe he did; after all, for so many years she’d been determined to shed every vestige of her former life she possibly could. “Arya’s never wanted to marry a lordling.”

“And that hasn’t changed, even though she’s met Gendry?” 

"Why would it? They’re only friends.”

She wanted to laugh. How could Jon be Azor Ahai, the one who had saved Westeros from the Long Night and wielded Lightbringer to kill the Night’s King and save her life, and not realize that his little sister was in love? “I hope you’re right.” 

“I can’t imagine Arya being lady of a windmill, much less a castle.”

“People have changed for less.” They lapsed into silence but she could practically see him mulling over her words-and she wondered which of them truly had the right of the situation. 

 

The last of the jousts and the archery contests were the next morning, bright and early. Jon woke up too early, listening to the sounds of the horses warming up and watching the sunlight stream through the curtains. Dany was gone, although her wardrobe was ajar and the dress she’d been planning to wear that morning was conspicuously missing. 

He dressed quickly and went downstairs, where he found Dany and the Stark girls breaking their fast on a small balcony overlooking the harbor-which was teeming with people. They were laughing at something Arya had said and they both looked happy and carefree; the years seemed to fall away from them until his sisters were the young girls he remembered from Winterfell and even Dany seemed like the young girl she had been when she was sold off to Khal Drogo. 

"Technically you’re not allowed to be here,” Sansa said as he pulled up a chair. “Only Stark women are allowed here.” 

“She’s not a Stark.” He inclined his head towards Dany, who took another bite of fruit innocently.

“She is through marriage. The council recognizes it,” Arya responded. 

“Who’s the Council?"

“Sansa and I.” 

“I don’t get a say?”

“You’re not a woman,” Sansa replied. “There are strictly no exceptions.”

He rolled his eyes. “I just came to ask my wife what time I should be down at the tourney grounds-in that ridiculous helmet.” 

"Check the lists,” she replied. “The final ten matches will take place after the archery contest.”

“The younger Elia Martell is competing, isn’t she?” Sansa asked. The Martells had been secretive; Elia and Dorea had gone to the archery ring for a couple of hours the night before but they hadn’t done anything else out of the ordinary. 

“She’ll probably win,” Arya added. “Jon, do you want to bet money on it?”

“I don’t think I have anything left to bet with,” he replied. 

She shrugged and went back to her breakfast. “It’s your loss. Now go-you’re overstaying your welcome.” 

Rolling his eyes again, he kissed Dany on the forehead and said “I’ll see you at the tourney” and left them in peace. He meandered his way through the castle, past people he knew by name and face and people he didn’t know at all, until he reached the practice grounds. He peeled off his doublet, which had already begun to stick to his skin, and pulled on his old (cracked) armor. He still felt naked in the ring without it; it had seen him through so many victories that he still considered it his good luck charm. 

He hadn’t been attacking the practice post for very long before Gendry came up behind him, hefting a longsword over one shoulder. “Practicing for your match?”

“You could say that,” he replied, flicking sweat from his forehead and moving his hair out of his eyes. “It wouldn’t do me well to lose my wife’s favor this early in the marriage.”

Gendry laughed. “You’re lucky I’m not entering the lists-less competition that way.”

“I thought it was because your passion is making swords, not wielding them.” 

“I can still fight a fair fight against you. Want to see?” 

They sparred for a while in the baking sun, which was only slightly less hot than the day before. When they finally stopped (Jon having won all but two matches, mostly because he let Gendry win), they were both covered in a fine sheen of sweat and took turns dunking their heads in the bucket of water provided by a servant. 

“Making a sword is never that tiresome,” Gendry said when they were both back in the practice ring cooling off. 

“Nor as rewarding,” Jon replied, quickly changing the subject. “Is there something...between you and Margaery Tyrell?”

“Oh.” Gendry colored and looked away. “Oh. I don’t...know yet.”

“What do you mean? Is it anything I can help with?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say that it’s not as easy to find one’s happily ever after than it was for you and your wife.” 

“I wouldn’t say it was easy-”

“You know what I mean. You had the option-some might call it the luxury-of marrying for love, with someone who loves you with all of her being. I...don’t think I can. I can’t marry the woman I love, the woman I would like to marry...Margaery is a beautiful girl and she’s already acquainted with Storm’s End, but she’ll always be a second choice.”

He felt his stomach turn into knots. “...Who is your first choice?”

He didn’t look at him. “Must I say her name?”

“Arya.” 

"Yes. I was going to ask your permission but...she told me last night that she won’t marry me. She’ll never marry me.”

Jon felt relieved and then felt guilty for it. “Why not? She cares about you-that’s plain as day to see.”

“She loves me, yes, and I love her-but I wish it was that simple. She doesn’t want the burden of marriage-to be tied down to one castle and forced to raise children. I told her we could compromise, work something out...but she won’t hear of it.” He sounded absolutely crestfallen. “I suppose I don’t blame her, but…”

“It’s the way she is. We can’t tie her down, not for marriage or for love. It’s not in her being. She’s constantly in motion, and being confined at Storm’s End would crush her spirit as surely as keeping a dragon locked inside the Dragonpits. Of course, you could always abandon your title and travel with her.” 

“If only things were that simple.” They both laughed, though there was more sadness in it than mirth. “You know, despite your initial hesitance, you both seem to be hosting an excellent tourney.” 

“It’s all thanks to Tyrion. All we had to do was show up.”

“Well, you certainly did that.” 

“And it’s not over yet.” 

 

They all crowded into the stands after the last of the lunch dishes had been cleared away to watch the archery contest. Three targets had been set up across the field, each farther and farther away from where the candidates stood choosing their bows. They ranged in age and ethnicity, but Elia was the only girl-and by far the youngest. However, she carried herself with an easy grace as she weighed a bow from hand to hand, filled her quiver, and seemed not to notice the whispers in the stands at every turn. 

The contest was no contest at all-the young Lady Martell outshot every single one of her competitors with the utmost of ease. Most of the people in the stands seemed not to know what to make of her, but her siblings cheered from the Dornish section of the stands. 

The royals clapped along as well, as Tyrion presented Elia with a bouquet of yellow roses and her prize of gold dragons in a small burgundy sack. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” he said as she turned towards the king and queen and curtsied neatly. 

The young girl laughed and tossed her head back; this was a girl who hadn’t grown up with war and violence, spending her days ensconced in the Water Gardens where nothing could touch her. Dany envied her that luxury, as she would never have it. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry much about that, Lord Lannister.” With that she skipped off to sit next to her sisters, who eagerly scooted aside to make room for her. Dany saw Obella look at her curiously from under her eyelashes, but she looked away quickly when she saw the Queen looking back at her. 

“I don’t think the Martells know what to make of us.” All of them, even the children, had grown up so much since she’d last seen them in Dorne, when she was completing her alliance negotiations with the Tyrells and Martells-though that had scarcely been nine months ago. 

Jon scoffed. “I don’t think we know what to make of them either.”

She didn’t answer for a minute. “There was some truth in what Arya said earlier, you know. We should introduce Dornish fashions to King’s Landing; they’re much cooler in the summer months.”

“I’m sure the Faith will appreciate that immensely.”

“They’re really quite comfortable-”

“One thing at a time-let’s focus on repairing Flea Bottom before we introduce new fashion trends.” The lists started again and he realized that he would have to fight for her within the next five matches. “Dany?”

“Hmm?” She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked out at the field, more mud than grass after being torn apart by so many horses’ hooves. 

“What would you do if I lost my battle today?”

“And my favor with it?”

“Precisely.”

“I suppose I would have to ask the faith for an annulment.”

“Then I suppose I shouldn’t lose.”

She reached up into her hair and untied the light blue ribbon that she’d used to tie her hair back; it fell around her shoulders in long golden tresses and Jon noticed more than a few men staring. She tied the ribbon around his shoulder, just high enough that it would avoid being snagged by his armor. “It’s customary for ladies to give knights their favor-and you have mine, now and always.” 

Her eyes, sparkling with laughter, were the last things he saw when he went down to the yard to saddle up his horse and win his first tourney. 

 

Jon commanded the battlefield as soon as he walked onto the tourney grounds. He was resplendent in his new Targaryen armor, the sunlight glittering off his helm and the sword in his hand, his hair brushing his shoulders. His destrier was also outfitted in Targaryen colors, all red and black, and he seemed to have fire in his eyes as he stared down his opponent-a thickset Hightower with a bushy black mustache. The crowds immediately began murmuring, taking bets-Dany saw coins exchange hands and she felt herself straighten proudly. That was her husband out there-every man wished he could be him and every woman wished she could marry him. 

But he was hers and hers alone. They would do well to remember that. 

One of the girls in Margaery’s entourage stared at Jon a little too long and Dany made eye contact and narrowed her eyes just slightly; the girl practically flinched in her seat and brought her eyes down to her lap immediately. 

Tyrion leaned across from his seat on the other side of Jon’s empty chair and whispered “Care to set a wager, your Majesty?”

“I would hate to bet against Jon,” she replied, looking down at the next row of seating. Sansa and Arya were watching raptly. 

“Especially because he seems to be the clear favorite.” 

“He’s the new Loras Tyrell, except much more powerful-he’s pretty as a maid and sharp but deadly with a sword.”

For the first time she realized how his new armor allowed his toned body to show through in just the right places. “Should I have gotten him a more conservative set?”

“The Dragon Queen’s not jealous, is she?”

“Of course not. They all saw me marry him. They all saw me crown him King of the Seven Kingdoms.” And they hadn’t seen the wedding in the godswood, or the way he’d pinned the direwolf lapel to her dress two nights before. Or the light in his eyes whenever they finally collapsed, exhausted, after a night of lovemaking and they talked for hours, like they were friends rather than man and wife. And in a way, she did feel like he was her friend-which was why she was certain that he was hers alone, because none of the other girls that gawked at him knew him even half as well as she did. 

The bells rang to signal the start of the match and the two combatants were off, her ribbon fluttering on his arm as his charger’s large hooves ate up the distance between him and the opposing foe. They were nearly there-and then they clashed, with the sound of splintering wood, and pulled apart. Both of their swords had broken; the Hightower swayed in his saddle for a moment worryingly but managed to stay upright, while Jon remained unmoved. 

They clashed twice and then thrice, neither managing to get the upper hand-although Jon stayed in his seat although he was part of the horse himself, and his sword moved as an extension of his arm. On his fourth pass he saw the opening he needed and he struck out with his sword in a movement that was almost too fast to see-one moment the Hightower was on his horse and the next he was in the mud. Dany rose to her feet just like everyone else and applauded until her hands hurt as Jon’s horse trotted back to the stables and he swung to the ground in one easy motion. Her favor was still tied to his arm. 

“He certainly is pretty in this light,” Tyrion smirked, and Dany rolled her eyes (though to be fair he really was). “Watch him, your Grace-someone might try to pour a love potion in his drink.”

“He would love me anyway, even if he did take a love potion,” she said confidently. It seemed only right that she assert herself, especially after he’d just won such a victory. 

When Jon came back, covered in a clean sweat and smelling of the tourney ground, she kissed him boldly in front of anyone who might be watching. And when she pulled away, no one was. 

He won the rest of his rounds, as she’d suspected he would, and crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty. She made a mental note to dry the crown, as she imagined Lyanna Stark would have dried the crown that her own dragon prince had won for her. 

She was beginning to realize that history had an odd way of repeating itself. 

 

The evening passed relatively quietly; Dany, Sansa, and Arya played cyvasse until nearly dawn and Jon, Gendry, Micael, and a couple of Royces took a horse ride around the outskirts of the city to witness the merrymaking of nobles and peasants alike. 

The next morning, as they made their way to the melee, all three women complained of splitting headaches. 

“How much did you drink?” Jon muttered as he and Dany took their seats on their raised dais. He knew automatically to sit back in his chair; he’d learned through trial and error that it was the most comfortable position. 

Dany glared at him. “Only half a glass.”

“You don’t get a headache from half a glass.”

“Sansa didn't drink anything and she has a headache. I think it’s the heat. It’s driving us all mad.” 

“Seven help us,” Jon muttered. But nothing could be done about it; the melee had to go on. 

The fight was long and hot. Jon was bored after the first few knights got out but he wasn’t exactly able to leave-although when Dany said that her headache was getting worse and then left unexpectedly, at first he thought she was only looking for an excuse to get out of the fighting. But she didn’t return-and by the time the champion of the melee was crowned and everyone dispersed for their last night of festivities and she still hadn’t returned he started to get nervous. 

He practically took the stairs up to Maegor’s Holdfast two at a time, bursting into the Queen’s private chambers without bothering to knock first. “Dany?”

She was seated on the edge of her bed, looking out at the city-and when she turned to him she looked slightly bewildered, as if she couldn’t quite tell who he was. “Jon.”

“You didn’t come back to the melee.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t feeling well.” She still didn’t look fully present; her hands twisted in her lap almost nervously. 

He sat down next to her, getting the sinking feeling that something very, very wrong had happened. “What is it?” Had something happened? Was the castle not safe?

“It’s nothing, I’m not sure-”

“Tell me.” Authority leaked out through his voice-she may have been the Queen, but he was her King-which meant he had just as much power as she did. And he was used to confronting people who seemed to be in shock-he’d certainly helped enough of them during and immediately following the Battle for the Dawn. “If there’s something dangerous going on, I have to know about it.”

“It might not mean anything.” 

“What might not mean anything?”

“I should have gotten my moon blood this week, but I haven't. I've been feeling a bit ill but I thought it was the sunshine-"

It took a minute for the words to register because they weren’t about Lannisters, assassins, or poison. “What?”

“It didn’t come last month either. I thought maybe it was a mistake but-” She glanced at him and shook her head. “Don’t get your hopes up."

Now it was his turn to sit back on the bed, floored. “You may be carrying our child.”

She practically hissed as she turned to face him again. “Don’t say that! We can’t be sure yet.” 

“Our child,” he repeated. And then he said them again- “Our child.” It seemed too foreign to be true-what they’d talked about, hoped for since their wedding night...it couldn’t possibly be happening. She was right. There had to be some kind of a mistake. “Have you gone to see a maester yet?”

“No, of course not. It’s too early.” She touched her stomach almost nervously, as if a wrong move could send their dreams sprinkling into a thousand pieces. He saw her trace the outline of the long and jagged scar that ran across her midsection almost reverently, with none of the distaste she usually had. But then again, the world was turning upside down anyway-why shouldn’t she act differently? 

He was smiling before he realized it. Even though she’d said to be careful, that it might not mean anything, he still couldn’t help imagining it-a child who would sit in with them on council meetings and would never know the pain and horror of war. His child, and hers. Suddenly he just wanted everyone to leave, so he could find out for sure and they could prepare for the baby’s coming. Seven hells, he thought, they'd never even given any thought to a nursery. “That’s amazing.” 

She laughed too, still looking out at the tourney grounds-already filled with peasants and hedge knights making their way back home. “We can’t think that way. It could still be nothing.” 

Even so, he felt as if every one of his nerve endings had been set on fire and it was all he could do to sit still. He wanted to hug her but he was almost afraid to; it still seemed inconceivable that she could be pregnant and it inspired a new wave of protective instinct towards her that he’d never felt before. 

He compromised by kissing her instead

 

The last dinner with the Starks was a small and intimate affair. Jon pelted Micael with questions about his and Sansa’s engagement, but he seemed to find everything satisfactory because he shook hands with him later that night. The girls talked about the places they wanted to travel to during their lifetimes; Dany thought once or twice about telling them the news but eventually she decided not to. For now, until it was solidified, the secret belonged to her and Jon. 

We need to decide on names, she thought. Aerion for a boy, Vaelaena for a girl. They were good Targaryen names; doubtless Jon would object, but their firstborn child-the heir to the Targaryen throne, no less-needed a Targaryen name. There could be no mistaking what the child’s heritage actually was. 

Everyone left in the morning; the palisade of the Red Keep was a mess of horse drawn carriages and trunks, while groomsmen and footmen ran to and fro between them both and the nobility tried to stay out of the way. They all left the capital in a parade of brightly colored fabrics, thanking the King and Queen for a lovely tourney. All in all, the occasion appeared to be a rousing success. 

Elia waved at Dany shyly as she climbed into the Martell carriage with the rest of her sisters. Once again, she caught Obella looking at her-but this time the young girl smiled instead of looking away. 

“We should offer to foster one of the Martell daughters,” she said to Jon as they stood on the steps of the Keep and tried to stay out of the way. “Heaven knows their mother has too many of them, and it would strengthen ties with Dorne and smooth over old wounds from the Battle of King’s Landing.” 

The Greyjoys sailed away into the harbor, the Tyrells and Lannisters dispersed into the city heading northwards, and Arya and Gendry left for Baratheon lands in the South. The Stark retinue was the last to leave, as they had so much to pack because they would be traveling such a far distance, and the lawn wasn’t clear until late that afternoon. The royals gave the rest of the servants the day off; they were all worn out from hosting the tourney. 

Jon and Dany retired to their solar with Tyrion, going over the lists of participants and expenses, some of which they still had to pay off. It was a long and painstaking process and when it was over Tyrion said he needed a couple of good bottles of Dornish red to keep the taste of responsibility out of his mouth. 

“So what do we do now?” Jon asked once they were finally alone, as the first silver stars sparkled in the sky above them. 

“We rule,” she replied. “We see what happens next and we deal with it as it comes. We rule one of the most powerful empires in the known world.” The child went unspoken, but doubtless they both felt it. “That’s what kings and queens do.”

Even though she knew Jon didn't want to admit it, the tourney had been a rousing success-in more ways than one. It had managed to be truly unforgettable.


End file.
